limoncello
by NegativeGravity
Summary: it's an old joke already: a sham psychic walks into a bar... — set between S1 E12 and S2 E01; canon-compliant.


**title:** limoncello  
**summary:** it's an old joke already: a sham psychic walks into a bar... — set between S1 E12 and S2 E01; canon-compliant.  
**raw word count:** 1363  
**notes:** cross-upload from my AO3 account. part two of three in a series of "in-between" vignettes.  
**notes 2:** the "lemon sour" Reigen orders is a cocktail (typically) consisting of whiskey and, well, a lemon sour; which is a type of carbonated drink (soda) produced by most major companies. (he is a man of taste, so I imagine Schweppes goes into his.) limoncello, from which the title of this fic is derived, is a standalone liqueur — I am using it only because 1) its color is close to chartreuse, which comes up quite a bit in-text, and 2) I prefer how it rolls off the tongue.

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The city swam into itself, chartreuse on gold on garish, neon pink. If he squinted just right, he could see the legacy signs of the old red district — brothels, love hotels, sex shops, all frozen in time as though the seventies had never ended. In the oddest of ways, it felt like home.

Reigen pulled at his tie, loosened it until he could undo the top three buttons of his shirt. _I'll have to take the suit to the dry cleaner's first thing in the morning,_ he thought, noting the scuff marks on his blazer's forearms. He made quick work of the math for the expenses; decided it wouldn't stretch his monthly budget, much; breathed, simultaneously relieved and yet somehow itching horribly just beneath the skin.

_Ah, well. Mob's safe, and so is his brother, and so is that other kid. And that's all that matters._

"You don't talk much when you're alone, huh," Dimple observed, floating somewhere to his right. His little arms were crossed over his chest, an eyebrow carefully arched. It was a funny sight.

"Got no reason to," Reigen replied, curt but without malice. The bell above the bar's door gave a cordial clink as he entered.

"Hi, we're clo—oh! Arataka, dear."

"Hey," he said, giving a little wave. "Sorry. Were you closing up?"

"Just about," the barkeep said, gracing him with a wink. "But for you, we're always open. One lemon sour?"

"Extra on the sour." A contemplative pause. "And make it alcoholic."

"Oh dear. Did something happen?"

Reigen slid onto a stool, twining his hands where they rested lightly on the counter. "It's a long story."

"You can tell me," the barkeep assured, voice a gentle, concerned lilt. "You know I don't kiss and tell."

He considered. "A bunch of bullies picked on my protégé, is all. I had to step in."

"Poor thing," the barkeep tutted. "He's in high school, did you say?"

"Middle. Second year."

"Oh. Oh—that's worse." Like a refrain: "Poor thing."

"It's fine," Reigen said, taking a sip from his drink. The barkeep had been generous with the sour; he hummed, pleased. "They won't be bothering him again, I don't think."

"Well, aren't you all macho," Dimple quipped, hovering a cautious arm-and-a-half's distance away. He was not dignified with an answer.

The barkeep gave Reigen a friendly pat on the wrist. "You're a good man, Arataka."

_I wonder about that, he thought,_ offering the man a polite smile. He finished the rest of his drink in silence, made sure to tip generously. _Is it guilt, or alcohol? Ah, fuck it. Doesn't matter, does it? Doesn't._ He felt as though he was swaying in place, yet he knew it was only the inside of his head that lolled. Gingerly, he extricated himself from his seat.

"'night," he said, proud for managing not to slur. "Sorry to keep you overtime."

"It's fine," the barkeep said, cheerily waving away the apology. "I was lonely, anyway. Everyone else left so early tonight," he added, an almost-pout that seemed to ask, _Can you believe the gall of them?_

Despite himself, Reigen laughed. "Let's have a party soon, shall we? A house-only event. I won't let them leave till dawn."

"Oh, that'd be lovely!" the barkeep said, clasping his hands together in a gesture of fancy. "I'll even discount the drinks!"

Reigen laughed harder. "We'll settle the date next time I stop by, alright?"

"Sure thing! Take care of yourself, darling."

He saluted without looking back.

As soon as they had melted into one of the serpentine alleyways which arteried the body of Seasoning City, Dimple said, without missing a beat: "Didn't take you for the type to hit gay bars, but I can respect it."

"Hey. Just 'cause my bartender's gay, doesn't mean his bar is, too," Reigen said. "Not that there'd be something wrong with that."

Dimple hummed. "You're drunk, aren'tcha."

"Shitfaced."

Caught _in flagrante_ in the makeshift alcove of an exit point, the city lights seemed to dance for him, lime-green and entirely too bright, like the shatter of a fallen star. He paused, breathing in the night; the scent of hot asphalt and grime was suffocating in a strangely well-welcomed way. He couldn't get enough—

"—fuck, I'm gonna hurl."

He did just that, expertly avoiding his shoes. Sweat pooled in the dip at the small of his spine, making his shirt cling to his skin like a particularly needy lover.

"You alright?" Dimple was asking, but his voice sounded so very faraway, as though the sound was traveling between them through a thick channel of water. "Reigen, hey. Reigen!"

"'mfine," he slurred, blinking back the mist the sudden upset had clouded his eyes with. "I'm fine. Just—just give me a sec." He straightened, breathing in slow and deep, from the bottom of the diaphragm up.

"Try not to die," Dimple said. "Mob would never forgive either of us if you croaked."

_Mob. That's right, Mob_. He remembered how the energy had trembled in his veins, coiling and heavy. _Is that how he feels all the time? Like he's got the whole world under his skin, wearing him like a—like a fucking onesie?_ He winced. Never in his life had he ever been more thankful to be average. Normal. What a loathsome word. He blinked again, sluggish and unfocused. Turned his attention elsewhere. "Why are you here, anyway? Dimple."

"To give the kids some privacy," the ghost said. "They've got a lot to talk about." A pause. Then: "And I really don't want to be around, just in case Ritsu decides to tell Mob about the hand I had in all of this."

Reigen almost laughed. Almost. "You don't want him to hate you, eh?"

"No."

"Me either," Reigen said, running a clammy hand down his face. He looked back out to the city lights and let himself shiver, attuned to their strange, mis-synced shimmer. All of a sudden, he was feeling so acutely, so despairingly sober. "Never thought I'd be terrified of something, but—it paralyzes me, almost."

Dimple looked at him for a long time. "For what it's worth," he said at last, "I don't think the kid could ever bring himself to hate you. You're his idol."

"Not that I paid much attention in history class, but weren't all idols eventually torn down by the very cultures who worshiped them?"

"Mob is not a nation," Dimple said, only catching the unintended irony in the statement after it had left his mouth. He pulled a face, somewhere between annoyance and genuine exhaustion. "He's a person, and you aren't his god. You're his mentor."

"Fine job I did of that."

"You did," Dimple agreed, purposefully missing the sarcasm. "As much as I hate to admit it, you did. He's so stubborn in his morals, it's a nuisance—and _you_ made him that way."

Reigen lit himself a cigarette; in that strange, subreal night, even the red sphere on his Lucky Strike packet was giving off a faint green sheen. _Maybe I should've ordered absinthe._ The stray thought almost had him scoffing; Y_eah, right. As if you can afford it. Get a grip, Arataka._ "He was always like that. Kindness is just who he is as a person." Inhale; slow exhale. An amending: "Kind, I mean."

Dimple couldn't dispute that, but he was also much too stubborn to back down. "Still," he insisted. "You gave him a moral compass. His idea of a good person is molded in your image."

At that, Reigen fell silent. Dimple watched the cigarette burn itself out in his hand, nearly untouched, singeing his fingers when the flame reached the filter and kissed it with an angry hiss. Reigen did not flinch. "I need to be more careful," he said, putting it out against the sole of his shoe, and the ghost could tell that he meant it apropos of more than just fire hazards.

"You do," he agreed. The subsequent _We do,_ he kept for himself.

The conman lit another cigarette, sparking the match alive against his thumbnail. He was still looking at the city lights, a not-all-there expression veiling his face. "Dimple?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks."

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* * *

_**fin.**_


End file.
